Michael shrugs and pushes the fork with his index finger, drawing the tomato sauce into a longer streak.
I sense that he’s getting worked up, and I use the gesture, cross my hands one on top of the other.
He sees me and looks away. “I heard you on the phone. Is Arielle going with you?” His voice is strained. “You know she doesn’t like me and I don’t like her. I wish you would just stop dating her.”
Gabriel swallows, and his lack of an answer is the answer.
I take the fork and get up. I lay the fork down, first the tines, then the handle, into the sink. It makes no noise at all. I wipe my fingers on my jeans and look over at the two of them, Gabriel’s eyes flashing, a red staining his jaw, his shoulders tense. Michael, hunched over, eyes liquid, mouth in a line. My stomach is queasy.
The thought of Arielle and Gabriel is like a knife, but I take a deep breath. “Gabriel, I think what Michael is trying to say is that he’s disappointed. He’s going up against Jimmy Kehoe, who’s the Chicago North champion and has been for the past two years. He’s fourteen. It’s sort of unheard of that a ten-year-old can challenge him. I know you had your trip planned before the convention came up, but he’s still bummed you can’t make it.”
Michael sticks up his chin and gives me a tiny, wobbly smile before glaring at his dad. “Yeah.”
Gabriel rubs his eyes. “Michael, I’m sorry. But I have people coming in from Japan and Malaysia specifically to see me and the Florida team—we already got the tickets and hotel reservation. And…” he pauses, “Arielle’s changed her plans.” He looks into Michael’s face, as if expecting his son to understand.
“Whatever.” Michael takes his knife and cuts at the spaghetti on his plate; jagged, hard strokes that slice the noodles and scrape the ceramic. The noise echoes in the silence, and it’s unpleasant, like nails on a blackboard, but uglier.
Gabriel winces. “Michael, I’ll make it to the next one. And after this weekend, I’ll be in town for at least a month, We can spend a lot of time together. Michael?” He pauses. “Michael! Can you please stop making that noise, and answer me?”
Michael keeps doing it, gets even louder, then he whispers, “I hate you, asshole,” and Gabriel explodes.
“Enough!” He stands up. “Your attitude is unacceptable. I expect you to behave for Shai this weekend. I’ll come by after I pack to say goodbye.” His voice calms down, as suddenly as it rose. A tsunami of passion.
I know those quick, powerful rages. The problem is that they don’t completely pass. If you let one loose on another person, it sticks in their brain for a long time, washing their thoughts over and over with your poison.
I follow Gabriel from the room. “Wait.” My voice is hard. “You shouldn’t go.”
“That’s not your call.” He folds his arms over his chest. “This trip is important for my business.”
“You said you were delegating more these days to your team and that business is no longer going to be your number one time priority. Like when you ditched your morning meeting to spend breakfasts with Michael.”
He looks away. “There are going to be exceptions and outliers, and the path to a better schedule isn’t perfect, Shai.” His voice is tight. “This is a meeting I can’t skip.”
“And Arielle?” I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice. He never promised me anything, but I still feel that all the time we’ve spent together lately, laughing and flirting, meant something.
“Arielle and I… she wants to reconnect. We’re going to try again. Michael… he’ll be fine with you.” But his voice holds uncertainty, even anguish, I think.
“Yeah, he’ll be fine with me. But he’d be even more fine with you. You were doing so well with him. But this isn’t an on-again, off-again situation. You have to keep spending time with him, keep showing him that he’s the most important person to you.”
He raises his voice. “Michael will deal. End of story.”
“All right.” I shrug, but I know my eyes aren’t soft.
He looks at me as if he wants to say something else, his eyes searching my face, but in the end he just nods and walks out to get ready for his trip.
Long tanned legs, tropical sunscreen, and drinks with umbrellas are all around me, a forest of legs, an ocean of drinks. Legs that are slick and oiled, legs that extend up into tiny bikinis, revealing waxed strips of flesh that inspire the imagination to dark, erotic places. The pool tosses up splashes and brilliant reflections that burn into my retinas, even through my expensive sunglasses. It’s been a full day of meetings, and I’m eager to relax.
Arielle is wearing something made of white strings, and the contrast to her even golden skin is fucking gorgeous. When she turns, I stare at her perfect ass, two round globes, cleft hidden by a tantalizing strip of soft cloth, and it’s all I can do not to throw her down on a lounge chair and stick my tongue in there, moving the fabric with my mouth, and licking her hard and deep. I haven’t had a good fuck in a long time, and my body needs release. If she and I are back together—or going to try for it—this weekend full of sex will be the right start.
Michael has been so difficult lately that it’s driving me insane. He makes me clench my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. And Shai. Jesus. I want to grab her and fuck her half the time. The other half, I want to shake her because she makes me mad, too, with her little suggestions and ideas that are always so irritating, mostly because they’re always right. I don’t like that someone knows my son’s reactions better than mine, even though she helps. Shai confuses me. Arielle—I know where I stand with her, and she with me. It’s easy. There’s no profound discussions, no gut-wrenching realizations of my own shortcomings.
Arielle sees my look and laughs, delighted. She likes to tease me. She leans over and whispers into my ear, letting her tongue lick my lobe. “Tell me I’m the hottest girl here, Gabe.”
“You’re the hottest fucking girl here,” I agree, biting her neck.
“Tell me I’m the best. All the other men want me. The other girls are jealous. You’re lucky that I’m with you.”
“The men want to fuck you and the girls want to be you,” I say into her neck. She preens, stretches, purrs into my body. “Any man would kill to take you back to his room,” I continue.
She reaches back to stroke my abs and whispers, “I love the way you talk to me.” But her eyes dart around the pool. I think she’s checking to see who’s watching us.
My phone dings and I grab at it. Shai’s sent a picture from the Pokémon conference. There’s Michael next to some person in a costume so intricate and well-made that it belongs on a Star Wars movie set. Shai’s in there, too. I notice that she’s wearing her black jeans and those boots I like, the ones with the clunky heels that make the curve of her calf swell out just enough so that I want to bend down onto my knees and bite it.
I smile at the next picture. Michael is smiling and posing with some other character. Shai’s not in this one. The text reads, “Michael and a Vaporeon.”
I text back. “Tell him that I like his sword. He can buy anything he wants, okay?”
Shai replies quickly. “Buying affection? Really? What if he wants this? They’re on sale here.” A picture of some DeLorean lined up with other expensive cars, behind a rope barricade.
“So, he can’t buy anything. Forget I said that. You get him something appropriate. I trust you 100%.” I smile.
“On it.” She gives a smiley face and goes silent.
Next to me, Arielle fidgets. “Are you talking to her again?”
“Just talking about Michael.” I frown, slip my phone back onto the towel on my deck chair.
“Well, you should stop for a while. I mean, as long as he’s fine, and all.” Arielle stretches luxuriously as a built man walks by. He catches her eye and smiles. “You’re here to relax and get away from him, right?”
I wince. Yes, but when she puts it like that, it sounds so cold. “He’s my son.” My words come out louder than I intended, and more force
ful, too. “I’ll talk to him, or about him, any time I want.”
“Of course.” She strokes my arm, looks at me with her clear blue eyes. “I mean, you’re the most awesome dad, ever.” She smiles. “It’s just, why should we talk about kid stuff when there’s fun adult stuff to do, right? That’s what this weekend is for. And when we get back, like I said, I’d, um, love to do something with all three of us. Like, a movie. Or dinner. Get to know him better. What you said? I’m going to try to be around more, and talk about him more.” She takes a breath. “And, you know, I think he maybe spends too much time with that woman. I mean, she’s just a therapist, after all.” She bites her lip. “She won’t be around forever. You should consider cutting back her time with him.” She turns away from me, checking out the cabana area, the bar. “Should we get more drinks?” She waves to a waiter.
“What do you mean?” My voice sounds hostile.
Arielle lifts one slender shoulder. “I’m talking about your son, which is what you wanted me to do. Right? So I’m asking. What is she doing, exactly? She’s a therapist, but now she’s a babysitter, too? Is she also your nanny?” Her voice is sharp. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Michael is going to get too attached to her, and when she leaves, it won’t be good. I think you shouldn’t have her around so much. It’s not healthy.”
She hands me a tall glass with fruit on a stick, fizz, layers of color. Sweet. Strong.
“I asked her to do more.” My voice is short. “She’s a therapist, yeah. And she’s helping him a lot. This is, you know, kind of, therapy-on-site. Like a house call from a doctor.”
It’s not, though, and I know that it’s definitely not normal therapy. Shai has become way more to Michael, and to me, than a typical therapist is, or should be. I know this. Arielle is right; it’s a weird, blurred boundary and it’s not appropriate. And I don’t give a shit, because I like Shai. And because my son is acting more normal and happy and excited than he has in a year (this past week excluded), and I will do anything—anything—to keep that going.
Except, apparently, give him my time this weekend. Guilt washes over me and the taste of my drink sours in my mouth. What was so important about being here, anyway? I look around me; really look. I put the drink down hard. “Let’s change the topic.”
People are so busy watching, looking, putting themselves on display. Something about it makes me feel exhausted in my soul, even more exhausted than the most difficult argument with Michael.
Arielle giggles and points. “Okay. New discussion. See that couple? She’s way too fat for him. Can you even imagine the two of them fucking? She’d squash him if she tried to get on top. Oh my God.”
I look, and yeah, okay, the woman is hefty. Probably she’d be better off in a one-piece, those old-lady kinds with the skirt attached, than that bikini. Her man—husband? Boyfriend?—is shorter than she is, and quite literally the thinnest man I’ve ever seen. His arms are like sticks, no muscles. His white legs are stark and straight, his knees knobby. His neck seems unnaturally long, and the prominent Adam’s apple only enhances this. And shit, the guy has acne. Damn, he got passed over when the genes were given out.
It’s true, what I said about Arielle being the hottest one here. This isn’t a place for wallflowers; this is a resort where people come to see and be seen, their money and privilege second only to their bodies. It’s a buffet of flesh: muscular, lean, sinuous.
Maybe a year ago, even a month ago, I’d have laughed at Arielle’s comment and agreed. “Yeah, she’s a whale humping a stick insect.” And we’d have laughed some more, being mean in private, bonding together over our shared exclusive perfection, and then gone to our hotel room and fucked ourselves into oblivion, leaving the odor of Arielle’s perfume and our sex in the air, a smell that I used to love.
For the first time, though, I smell something underneath the floating aroma of plumeria and hibiscus and chlorine and gold all around me. It’s the odor of desperation. Why does Arielle need to hear it so often, that she’s the prettiest? Why should we bother comparing? If we’re happy together, does it matter that she’s leaner or taller or blonder than the others—and what even makes that so perfect?
Maybe it’s just my rotten mood making me contrary, making me disagree with what she says no matter what it is. But I feel a urge to protect these people from Arielle and her easy cruelty, even though I know it will piss her off. “She’s okay. And hell, the dude’s getting pussy. Good for him. As long as they’re happy together, right?” I smile and shrug, hoping she’ll move on, forget she said it, so I can forget it, too. I need this weekend to clear my head.
I used to enjoy getting away with Arielle. But hearing her words make me realize that she’s the problem. How could I have never noticed this selfishness?
I think about Shai’s curls and hear her excited laugh. I see her dark eyes flashing with excitement and happiness. I see her kindness, her warmth. Her helpful words. I see her body, sturdy and strong. She’s not tall like Arielle. She’s built to fit right into my arms. I remember how her breasts felt in my hands: warm, soft, firm. Really fucking good. Arielle’s got good tits, too. She had the best surgeon in L.A. do them a few years back, and they stand out like any porn star’s. She shows them off all the time. But they’re fake. I’m tired of fake.
I know why I never noticed the selfishness. It’s because I’m selfish, too.
I stand up, feeling a sense of relief. I turn to my date and tell her, “Let’s go to the room and get dressed. I need to get back to my home.”
Fuck the rest of my meetings. I’m going to be with the people who matter.
Michael fidgets with his mechanical pencil. I give him a look, and he stares back, innocent.
“What?” His voice is grumpy. Now that we know each other, he takes liberties, if I let him. There have been times when he’s almost as rude to me as he is to his father.
I shake my head. “If you need help, you can ask me. But you know the right tone of voice.” I keep my tone light and even, not mean, not pissy. Just explaining the situation.
He sighs out hard, a sigh that would blow up bangs, if he had them. He shakes his head. “I don’t need help. This is just boring.”
“Okay.” I nod and go back to my book on therapeutic strategies. It’s not one of those books that grabs you and goes into you, and becomes you, the kind of book you remember long after you’re done. But it’s all right. The author has some good points buried in a sea of self-congratulatory exposition, and I find them, underline them with one of Michael’s highlighter markers. It feels good to let the thick yellow tip glide across the white page.
Boring the book may be, but the pages are high quality paper, and the inks smears not at all, even though the marker ink is wet, a fluorescent snail trail across the page, glistening in the light until it dries a few seconds later. I highlight more passages, ones that are only moderately appealing, just to keep that feeling going. Swish. Swish. I have the hang of a whole sentence, now, my hand firm and smooth. No jagged edges, no deviations. Like a machine.
Michael taps the pencil against his paper, opens the back, and lets all the lead slide out. They roll across the table and fall to the floor. He darts me a look. “Oops.”
I keep reading.
“Shai. I can’t do my homework anymore. My pencil broke.”
I look up. “It broke, or did you dump out the lead?”
He shrugs. “It’s on the floor now and I can’t find it. Maybe I should do math instead.” He smiles and looks toward his backpack. “There’s a new assignment on partial differential equations from my calculus tutor. It’s not due until Friday, but maybe I should do it today. You know, just to get it out of the way.” He looks at me, eyes bright, leaning forward.
It’s funny to me how this kid can do so much math and have such a phenomenal vocabulary, and have trouble interpreting a poem.
I raise my eyebrows. “Nope. I know you’re already five assignments ahead. Dr. Chooch told me you’re blowing throug
h the assignments like they’re paper and you’re flame.”
He smiles and sticks out his chest, then looks back at the poem book and slumps back in his chair. “I hate this. I’d rather do more math.”
“I know, but you have to be well rounded.”
“You mean fat?” He laughs.
“You know what I mean.” I give him a mock fierce star, then smile when he imitates it. “Listen, let me read it. I don’t remember any math, but I was great at poetry. I can help.”
He pushes the book over with two fingers. “Whatever.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Whatever.” I smile at him, a fake big smile, and he giggles, even though I can tell he doesn’t want to.
“This is old. It’s by Christina Rosetti. Okay. Here it is.” I clear my throat.
“An emerald is as green as grass,
A ruby red as blood;
A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;
A flint lies in the mud.
A diamond is a brilliant stone,
To catch the world’s desire;
An opal holds a fiery spark,
But a flint holds fire.”
He looks at the table. “I don’t understand it. It’s about jewels, right? What’s there to interpret?” His voice is strident, but underneath it I hear something else.
“Michael, are you worried? Do you think that if you can’t analyze a poem, that you’re not smart enough?”
He raises his voice. “I know I’m smart! I just don’t like this stuff.” He tosses his pencil across the room. We both watch it land. He looks at me, pleading.
“Okay. Why don’t you go get that,” I point at the couch, where the pencil has disappeared against the brocade, “and a new thing of leads, and then I’ll help you figure it out. You want to know a secret?”
“What?” He leans forward. He likes secrets, Michael. He meets my eyes. His are wide.
“First get the pencil.”
He makes a face, but fetches it. Then, without being asked, he picks up the lead filaments he dropped earlier. “These are actually not broken,” he remarks, pleased. “I think the addition of the high-polymer resin to the graphite made them stronger, and allowed them to stay intact even when they fell. That’s really fascinating, Shai. Okay. Now tell me the secret.”
A Handful of Fire Page 14